


Thicker than water

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental overdose, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Heartbeats, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Soft Witchers, Whump, domestic undertones, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25058473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: It should be hardly surprising for Geralt that his legs give up on him after three, maybe four uncertain steps. However, when he falls on his knees with a pained, low grunt, he feels…pissed off. Angry. Frustrated.Dying by the fangs and claws of a bruxa and simultaneously overdosing on potions? Such a stupid, preventable death. Vesemir would kick him square in the butt for this.He’d be absolutely right.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 20
Kudos: 160





	Thicker than water

When Geralt finally manages to crack his eyes open, the bruxa he has been hired to kill lies in a pool of her own stinking, rotting blood, some thick rivulets of a sticky dark substance still dripping down her sharp chin.

He groans. Loudly.

That’s his own blood, tainted with the potion that makes it extremely toxic to vampires in case they try to suck him dry. They always do, the fuckers. They never learn.

Gingerly, he probs the bite mark on the side of his throat with the tip of his ungloved fingers, careful not to push too hard on the injured tissue. He feels the edges of the mouth-shaped gash throb, oozing blood all over his armor. His blood still looks dark, almost black even, as thick as slush and just as disgusting. The smell – sour and alien and sick – is enough to make his stomach churn as he wrinkles his nose in revulsion.

He should get up. He should really, really get on his feet. He and Eskel have agreed to meet after the job – it was a two witchers’ job, actually. Two monsters plaguing the villages built at the edge of the woods, a vampire and some sort of a wraith. It was just by chance that Geralt had ended up taking the bruxa contract and Eskel that for the wraith: a game of Gwent had chosen for them. Vampire to the loser, whatever kind of a vampire could it have been. Geralt snorts at the thought. Eskel claims that his luck is rotten but which one of them is currently bleeding out in a forest? Not Eskel – hopefully, at least.

The witcher wonders what time might it be. Right before leaving to take care of the contracts, he and Eskel had decided to meet up at the small inn near Blackwater Crossroads before noon.

Too bad that the thick foliage above is keeping Geralt from determining the exact position of the sun. Perhaps, it’s already past noon. Judging by the warmth and the bright, yellow light filtering through the leaves, he’s almost sure noon has long passed, though he can’t rely on his senses right now, not when he’s still experiencing the effects of the elixirs and, most importantly, slowly but steadily bleeding out on the ground.

Geralt tries to turn his head to relax the muscles in his neck and shoulders a bit. Predictably enough, he’s too stiff and too sore to be able to move swiftly.

Still.

He must get on his feet.

If only to reach the small clearing where Roach is waiting for him, sheltered in the ruins of an old barn, gulp down some much needed White Honey – he’s got so many different poisons in his blood he can actually feel how hard it’s getting for his mutated heart to pump it properly – and find Eskel before passing out.

Which, he thinks, is gonna happen again tragically soon if he doesn’t get up _now_.

White Honey. He needs to get the toxins out, have his neck stitched and sleep away the pain that will inevitably follow once the detoxifying potion has done its magic.

So he tries again. This time putting a lot more effort into it. When he finally manages to sit up without feeling the urge of vomiting, he’s surprised to feel a searing pain shooting through his ribs, making dots dance in his peripheral vision.

Turning his head with the outmost care, Geralt spots a long gash running down the length of his ribs. He winces when he realizes that his armor might be ruined beyond repair and, honestly, fuck the bruxa, that was a damn fine armor, an expensive piece of gear he had purchased in Novigrad by a dwarf armorer from Mahakam. Black, gooey blood has pooled on the ground, killing the soft, fresh grass it has touched. The witcher feels dizzy, drained, and he starts wondering how much blood is left inside his body, how long can he still function like this. His heart beats painfully slow and hard under his breastbone, each strained beat loud in his ears, reverberating through his pounding skull.

He has nearly killed himself with elixirs, this time. Not to mention the heavy blood loss he’s still suffering. He shouldn’t, _he really shouldn’t_ be surprised he’s feeling like shit right now, and surely looking even worse.

A long exhale through his lips. Sand in his mouth. Blood in his throat, staining his teeth.

As he tries to get up, every single bone, joint and tendon creak in protest.

The world spins and spirals around him, green and yellow and brown.

When he spits some clotted blood on the dirt, Geralt sees red for a solid minute. Not fucking good.

He knows he should crouch, now, unsheathe his hunting knife and take his trophy from the bruxa – he needs to behead her, a straight cut, nice and clean, the sharp sound of her vertebrae snapping and then – and then –

Yes. He must take the head to the alderman who has hired him, ask for his payment, find Eskel and – hopefully – rest. Sleep for, like, two days straight.

Heal.

Easier said than done, though. He feels far beyond exhausted. Worn out would be a more appropriate term. Completely spent.

His heart is now beating an unsteady, throbbing tempo that thumps uncomfortably at the base of his head. The long, deep wound slashing through his side throbs in time with the dull beat. It hurts like hell, and it’s still bleeding black.

It should be hardly surprising for Geralt that his legs give up on him after three, maybe four uncertain steps. However, when he falls on his knees with a pained, low grunt, he feels…pissed off. Angry. Frustrated.

Dying by the fangs and claws of a bruxa and simultaneously overdosing on potions? Such a stupid, preventable death. Vesemir would kick him square in the butt for this.

He’d be absolutely right.

***

Silence.

Complete, utter silence.

Death, maybe? The afterlife? The Great Beyond?

Geralt breathes the fresh air in, a sharp intake that fills his lungs and hurts his chest. It smells and even tastes like pine needles, and it feels quite rough in his sore throat.

He can hear the crispy sound of rustling leaves above his head. Death isn’t that silent, after all.

He floats and floats and floats, in and out of consciousness, unable to keep his eyes open for more than the tiniest fraction of a second.

He smells pine needles, again. With a touch of wild mint, which feels strangely soothing somehow. His heart is beating all wrong, slow and erratic, inefficient – perhaps it’s because of his blood, his toxic blood that’s messing up with his heart, disrupting its rhythm. Poisonous blood. Too thick.

He slips back into oblivion, barely registering the two fingers pressing gently against his carotid artery and the husky, pleasant voice muttering a curse in distance.

***

“Wake up, you asshole. You gave me quite the scare.”

Geralt grunts, heavy eyelids still shut tight and a sharp pain gnawing at his left side like a goddamn hungry mouse.

Eskel’s smell – firewood, leather, horse and sweat – fills his nostrils and, for a while, his sluggish brain lingers on the illusion of being behind the sturdy walls of Kaer Morhen already – even though summer hasn’t yet lost its bright color and faded into fall – safe and sound.

His little fantasy doesn’t last, though. The wild scent of the forest is too strong, too persistent. So is that of the campfire, of the wet grass under his – or Eskel’s? – bedroll, of the many animals doing their business in the dark.

“Hey. Geralt.”

Eskel’s calloused hand cards through his tangled hair. Geralt leans into the touch, sighing, breathing his brother’s scent in.

“Hmmm…thirsty”, he mutters, trying to prop himself up on his elbows.

“Easy, easy – I had to stitch you up like an old rag, sudden movements could damage my artwork. Let me help you.”

He lets Eskel take care of him. Normally, he wouldn’t rely on anybody, but – it’s Eskel. Eskel can basically do whatever he wants with him, Geralt never complains.

“The bruxa”, he starts once he has gulped down an entire skin of water full to the brim. “I have to get back and sever her head for the alderman –”

Eskel brushes his fingers against his back, rubbing soothing circles in the aching muscles, taking the some of the tension away.

“It’s already been dealt with. I took care of everything. The village has raised up four hundred Orens for the job, even though I had to bargain for a while – uh, I’ve put the purse in your saddlebags, by the way.”

Geralt nods.

“Thanks, Eskel. I owe you. I’ll pay for your booze once I’m back on my feet”, he wearily promises.

“Speaking of which, it’ll take three or four days. I couldn’t give you anything to help tissue regeneration, you were already on the verge of a massive overdose. What the hell? How many elixirs have you wolfed down for only one bruxa?”

Geralt doesn’t remember, actually. Many vials. Many vials he has uncorked with his teeth than gobbled absentmindedly.

“She was strong. Old”, he explains, knowing that it sounds like he’s making up dumb excuses.

He isn’t.

“Yeah, I can see that. She opened you up like a damn catfish. But the potions –”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been rash. But I had some White Honey in my pack, I always carry some extra just in case.”

“And yet you almost died on me.”

Eskel doesn’t sound angry. He rarely does, actually. His voice is filled with genuine concern, though, slightly broken and sad. Geralt would rather rip his stitches off with his own bare teeth than having to deal with the pang of guilt that seeing Eskel like this causes him.

“I’m sorry”, he whispers, and Eskel scoffs.

“I know. Just – be careful, all right? I don’t want to –”

_Lose you?_ Yeah, should be something like that.

“Me neither, Eskel.”

Upon meeting Eskel’s golden gaze, Geralt feels his heart flutter in his chest. His heartbeat still feels odd: he must have lost more blood than he thought.

Some thick fluid boils in a traveling pot suspended over the bonfire. Eskel leaves Geralt’s side only to stir it and add some dried herbs from a small glass jar.

“You cooked”, Geralt states. Eskel smiles softly in response.

“Mutton stew. An old lady gave me some mutton meat alongside my payment in coin. For the wraith, you know.”

“Right, the wraith. You’re not injured, are you?”

Eskel shakes his head, takes another spoonful of stew and adds some more mixed herbs.

“No. Just a couple of bruises on my stomach, I’ll live.”

Geralt lets out a relieved sigh. His ribcage hurts and he hisses with pain.

“What about the wraith?”, he ends up asking through gritted teeth.

“Common nightwraith. Poor lass had been killed by her lover, her body quartered and brutalized – no wonder why she was so aggressive.”

Despite the warm night, a shiver runs down Geralt’s spine. When Eskel’s back at his side, he wraps his arms around his waist, although moving sends jolts of burning pain through every single nerve ending in his body.

“Thank you”, he whispers, as Eskel places a chaste kiss on his dirty hair.

He’s still so fucking tired and weak. Eskel’s body feels so soft, welcoming and warm against him, it lulls him to sleep.

He’s so fucking tired.

“Sleep, Wolf. I’ll wake you up once the stew is ready. Rest, you need to regain your strength.”

Soft lips that taste like stew pressed gently against his. A delicate had stroking tenderly the back of his neck. Suddenly, the pain coursing through his veins in a continuous flow like white-hot electricity doesn’t feel so unbearable anymore.

“Sleep, Wolf. Sleep.”

Some more strokes. On his neck, on his shoulders. Down his sore back.

For once in his life, Geralt does what he’s told.

And he falls asleep.


End file.
